


Kiss it Better

by foxxconfessor



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-10 07:59:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19497421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxconfessor/pseuds/foxxconfessor
Summary: Inspired by events in the Summer 2019 trailer.





	Kiss it Better

"Well, I can't say this is exactly how I pictured this happening."

Callum doggedly avoids Ben's gaze as he helps draw the shirt off his back. The shirt isn't even fully off when he pulls away, material left bunched in the crook of Ben's forearms. Callum freezes at the sight of him, the horror on his face as vivid as the cuts and bruises on Ben's torso. He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut like he's trying to force his way out of a nightmare. Ben watches him, face on; is still watching when he opens his eyes. They've barely held each other's gaze for more than a second when Callum ducks his head and bolts for Whitney’s sewing desk, gripping the back of the chair as if it were some sort of life raft. When he speaks again, his eyes are fixed on the machine on the table, his voice low and strained.

“You could have internal bleeding. You should go get checked out.”

“Thought I just had been”.

Ben smirks a little, then grimaces. His chest feels tight, pain relentless and everywhere.

“You’ll have to apologise to the missus when she gets back.”

Callum reels round, eyes wide with panic.

“For what? What are you going to-”

Ben directs his gaze to the blood-splattered sofa cushion beside him. Callum looks at the cushion, then the rest of the sofa and carpet beneath, which are also spattered with deep red droplets.

He pauses, brows furrowed, then strides into the kitchen. His departure is followed by a series of clangs, interspersed with rustling and banging of cupboard doors. Ben extends his neck as he tries to keep sight of Callum, gritting his teeth through the strain.

“Minute Mart might have some bleach, if you’re looking to hide the evidence.”

The clanging gets louder for a few moments, before silence resumes. Callum returns a few moments later, biscuit tin in one hand, knife and washcloth in the other. Ben stifles a laugh.

"Y’know, I'm starting to think you get a kick out of giving a bloke mixed signals."

Callum offers a faint smile, then tentatively sits back down beside Ben, removing the lid off the tin.

“Just.. stay still.”

Ben smiles, a satisfying warmth spreading through him as Callum leans in again.

“Trust me, I ain't goin' anywhere.”

As gentle as Callum is, Ben can’t help but hiss when he presses the washcloth onto the large open wound just above his collarbone.

“Sorry.”

Ben offers Callum a reassuring smile, feeling oddly guilty himself.

After cleaning up the final wound, Callum reaches into the biscuit tin to produce a roll of bandages, which he proceeds to unravel and slice into multiple strips. The tenderness Callum exhibits cleaning up Ben's wounds is equalled by the determined efficiency with which he dresses them, leaving Ben feeling even more winded than when Callum first found him, curled up against the wall of a grime-sodden alleyway.

“You ain’t half bad at this.”

Callum slows, as if pulled from a reverie of his own.

“At what?”

“Fixing me up.” Ben pauses, eyeing Callum closely. “Making me better”.

Finally, Callum meets Ben’s eyes, holding his gaze for an indeterminable number of seconds before lowering his head again, excusing himself to the last of Ben's wounds.

Ben finds himself feeling unexpectedly exposed, acutely aware of just how shallow his breathing has gotten. As Callum draws back to clear away the bandages, he takes a moment to regain his composure, clearing his throat with an alarming lack of subtlety.

“You done this before, then? Back in the army?"

Callum resumes his habit of looking absolutely anywhere other than Ben.

“A couple of times.”

Ben scoffs.

“Modesty gets you nowhere, Callum. I bet you saved plenty of lives out there.”

Callum is silent for a few moments, and Ben sees a darkness descend over his eyes.

“Not enough.”

Callum turns away, hands pressed together against his mouth as if in prayer. Ben starts to reach out to him, hand suspended a few inches away from from thigh. He decides better of it, instead drops his hand and rubs his fingers across a still-damp blood spot on the sofa.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Callum hangs his head, smiling bitterly.

"You wanna talk about who did this?"

He motions vaguely to Ben's patched up torso. Ben offers a wry smile and shrugs.

"Given my history, could’ve been just about anyone. And anyway, I'd wager I've still got at least half a dozen lives left before they finally get me."

Ben notices Callum’s eyes veer towards a spot just above his right eyebrow, then feels something trickle down right from where Callum is looking onto his cheekbone. He brings his fingers up to it, and upon inspection, finds them glazed with blood. He feels no urge to try and stop the bleeding, not even rub it off his fingers. He hears Callum lift the lid off the biscuit tin again, but Ben remains motionless, his eyes fixed on the blood now trailing into his palm.

"S'always the good ones."

Callum stops rummaging. In the corner of his eye, Ben sees his gaze divert to Ben’s bloodied hand.

"Every night after, you lie awake wondering why it wasn't you. The guilt...”

Ben swallows hard; lets out a long, staggered breath before continuing.

“At the beginning, it only flares up when you start to feel good again. Then, after a while, whenever you're sad, bored... alone. And then you start to feel this weight, building... all the years you've got left, stacked up against all the years they've had taken from ‘em. It's like they're guilt-tripping you, wherever they are, into finding happiness... for yourself, and for them."

Callum looks at him then, really looks at him, his eyes rich with sympathy. Perhaps, Ben imagines, something deeper than sympathy. Ben feels a lump form in his throat as it dawns on him that the awkward, gentle, desolate man looking right at him might well be the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on.

The feeling is somehow sharpened by its own inevitability, becoming so powerful Ben that has no choice but to look away, swallowing his regret as he does so.

“Does that offer still stand?”

Startled, Ben lifts his head to find Callum looking not at him, but past him, as if escape were still an option.

“When I... the last time you-”

He hitches his breath as if steeling himself, eyes filled with regret as he rests his gaze upon the wound on Ben’s forehead. Without another word, he leans forward and gently presses his lips to it. Pulling back, Callum grants just enough distance for Ben look directly into his eyes, but Ben finds his vision too hazy, overpowered by other, newly wakened senses.

Initial stupefaction gives way to a desire stronger than any Ben has ever known, so much so that he doesn’t even wait to breathe out before clasping Callum’s face with both hands and kissing him like he’s his only life source. And yet, somehow, the force of Callum’s passion is stronger, and Ben ends up gasping as Callum pushes him back into the sofa, pressing onto a wound.

Callum jerks back clumsily.

“Oh, sorry, I-”

“No, don’t be-”

Ben hesitates, struck by an unfamiliar feeling which, despite all his physical urges, he feels almost bound to comply to.

“Wait.”

Dejection quickly shadows Callum’s features, compelling Ben to prop himself up and shift right next to Callum, their knees touching. Callum seems too embarrassed to look at him, and so Ben subtly leans in towards him, lowering his voice to just above a whisper.

"It’s just that… you've had your hands on me all afternoon."

Eyebrows knotted together, Callum shakes his head, his cheeks sucked in like he’s restraining a smile.

"I was doing you a favour."

Ben holds his hands up defensively.

"Look, I’m not arguing. It’s just... I don’t know about you, but when I do someone a favour, I usually want something in return."

Ben cocks an eyebrow suggestively, delights as he notices the muscles in Callum’s throat constrict. Feeling gratified, he brings his mouth to the underside of Callum’s jaw before planting a trail of slow, deliberate kisses down his neck. Once he reaches his collarbone, he moves his hands to the front of Callum’s shirt, revelling in the wildness of Callum’s breathing, and Ben wonders if it’s possible that every time will feel like this (like manning a sinking ship through a storm).

Shirt now fully unbuttoned, Ben brings his mouth back up to meet Callum’s. Hands splayed across his torso, he gently pushes Callum back so his head lolling over the arm of the sofa. Ben breaks away for a moment, and finds himself struck by the sight of Callum, so open and vulnerable (and, in the shadow of this, by how stark and pure his own intentions are). It’s only when Callum opens his eyes and peers at Ben in a state of confused desperation that Ben comes to, wrenched back into the present with the feeling of having been flung from a wave.

“Sorry-”

He finds himself completely at a loss as to what to say, only wants to map kisses over Callum's torso, mirroring every inch of skin that Callum had touched and tended to. But as he shifts position to brace himself over Callum, his body starts to betray its own desires - bruises aching, muscles stiffening, wounds stretching and searing. He lets out a groan of both pain and frustration, making Callum sit up and place a delicate hand on his shoulder.

Ben clenches his fist, just about managing to restrain himself from punching the back of the sofa. Callum doesn’t say anything, just leans in enough for Ben to rest his head on his bare shoulder. Ben’s breathing quietens as Callum rubs small circles into the nape of his neck.

“Maybe we should wait, until…”

Ben pulls back, eyeing Callum with mock suspicion, as if his heart rate hadn’t just increased tenfold.

“Just so we’re clear...this is a ‘to be continued’?”

Callum flashes a small smile before his expression stills. Something has shifted, not just in his demeanour - a shift as subtle as it is irrevocable. His eyes, now heavy with allure, fix Ben’s gaze, and Ben is sure he’s never felt more powerless, or alive.

They’re yanked apart by the sound of jangling, ringing out with all the urgency of a siren.

“Ugh, these damn keys…”

They have only seconds.

“Callum, what are you - Ben, oh my god!”

Whitney walks in to find the pair of them perched on either end of the sofa, both gazing down at their feet.

“Ben, what happened?”

Ben conducts a mock appraisal of himself, as if suddenly reminded of why he’s even there in the first place.

“What, this? Just your regular mugging gone wrong. ‘Should have seen the other guys.”

Whitney rolls her eyes, dropping her handbag on the counter before moving out of sight to switch on the kettle.

“You men and your fragile masculinity. You should count yourself lucky Callum found you when he did.”

“Yeah.” Ben smiles shyly as he looks to Callum again; his voice lowered, almost choked. “‘Spose I should.”

Callum smiles back, but it’s tinged with regret, and what Ben can only assume to be guilt. Ben feels a sharp tugging somewhere, and for a split second he finds himself wishing his injuries were even more severe.

“Don’t you think you should get yourself properly checked out, though? Not that Callum hasn’t done a wonderful job of patching you up. ”

Whitney props herself on the arm of the sofa, leaning down to press a playful kiss onto the top of her fiance’s head. Jaw clenched, Ben forces himself up off the sofa, not looking at either of them.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Whitney rises to her feet as the kettle clicks off.

“Hold on, I was just about to make a cuppa. You look like you could do with one.” 

"Nah, I’d better head off-”

“Well, at least let Callum give you a hand getting down those stairs. Go on, Cal.”

She signals to Callum, who stands up awkwardly, risking a small glance at Ben as he starts to button up his shirt.

“Hang on, Callum, don’t tell me you went to work like that?”

Face taut, Callum looks around, then down at himself, letting out a nervous laugh.

“What d’you mean?”

“Your shirt, look - it’s done up all wrong!” Whitney turns to Ben, tutting. “Honestly, he can dress a wound but can’t dress himself for work.”

Ben smirks at Callum, not unkindly.

“He’s a marvel, alright.”

Whitney shoots Callum a wearied, enamoured grin before heading back into the kitchen. Ben hasn’t quite managed to stifle his own adoration when Callum looks up at him, and for a moment it’s like they have the flat all to themselves again. Callum breaks into a strained smile, nodding towards the door.

“I’ll uh… help see you out.”

Ben holds out his arm to let Callum go ahead, his hip skimming Ben’s palm as he passes.

The stairway is dark and narrow, and Ben can’t begin to imagine how they’ll both navigate this, or if he even needs Callum’s help anyway.

“Cosy.”

Callum peers down silently, no doubt approaching the same conclusion.

“Let’s just-”

He slides his arm around Ben’s waist, then hesitates; the plan going forward about as lucid as the space itself.

Almost every step down is punctuated with a groan or gasp from Ben as the pair’s bodies repeatedly collide (neither of them having factored Ben’s injuries into their already arduous predicament), and when they reach the bottom step they both collapse against the wall, panting and spluttering.

After a brief coughing fit, Ben starts to chuckle quietly to himself, delirium finally catching up with him. And then Callum’s silence reaches him, and he stills, peering closely at Callum’s shadowed profile.

“Alright?”

Callum turns to him with a solemn but otherwise impenetrable expression, and it takes Ben a few seconds to process what’s happening when Callum leans in and presses their lips together.

Despite their dingy, somewhat clandestine surroundings, the kiss itself is slow and soft, as if dictated not only by carnal impulse, but by a far more singular longing - a longing rooted in tenderness.

When Callum pulls away, Ben can see what little light there is around them reflected in his tear-glazed eyes.

“When I found you, I thought..”

The tone of Callum’s voice triggers a swell of emotion Ben can’t quite possess: a feeling as precise as it is incomprehensible, at once unbearable, and everything Ben’s ever needed. Ben isn’t sure how much more he can handle, but when Callum’s eyes flicker down, when his mouth opens and closes without a sound, Ben finds himself pleading silently, eyes wide, fingers grasping fingertips -

“ _Callum, you alright down there?_ ”

Callum jerks his head toward the top of the stairway. Ben watches him struggle for a moment before turning away resignedly, reaching for the latch.

“Wait, are you-”

Ben presses his finger against Callum’s mouth, and without tearing his eyes away, pulls down the latch.

When he steps outside the light almost blinds him, though the square is close to deserted, like it’s early evening.

“ _Just comin’, Whit._ ”

He hears the latch click behind him, followed by muffled footsteps, getting quieter until there’s nothing but a nauseous feeling, rising up from within him.

He doesn’t remember walking home, has no idea how he made it all the way to his bedroom unseen. When he drops down onto the edge of his bed, he feels like he’s in an anonymous hotel room.

As he peers down at the cuts across his hands, he thinks about what they might look like tomorrow. Next week. A month. Deep purple bruises turning yellow, red scars turning ghostly white. Some leaving no visible trace; nothing but a memory to be clenched away once a day, every so often, rarely ever.

He thinks about what waiting means. Holding your breath. Clinging on. Not moving an inch, until something changes.

“ _Maybe we should wait, until…_ ”

Fists curled, he slams his head against the wall before stumbling back down onto the bed. He can feel the blood trickle down again, coating his eyelashes, a stale taste in his mouth as the world closes in...

He’s jerked awake by a series of vibrations against his thigh. He fumbles around in his pocket, then brings his arm up, blinking once, twice.

_Here if you need me_

_X_


End file.
